Surface
by sweetburgundy
Summary: Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes uncovering the things that are hidden beneath the surface.
1. Chapter 1

She leans down, her nose almost touching the candelabra in his hand.

"I don't think it's anything to worry about, Mr Carson," she says, straightening up. "It's just a mark. I can barely see it, so I doubt anybody else will notice it."

"I will notice it," he says, annoyance colouring his voice. "Is it bad? Just look at it, Mrs Hughes."

She makes an effort not to roll her eyes, settling instead for a raised eyebrow as she leans down once more. She squints at the silverware that has once again been thrust in front of her.

"Do you think…?" He pauses as he feels the warm whisper of her breath on his hand. "Do you think it will come off if I rub at it some more?"

"I imagine so," she says, patience a little too thick in her voice. "Why not give it a go? You don't lose by trying."

He nods, turning the candelabra over in his hand, aware of his arm brushing her shoulder as he feels the full weight of it. She doesn't move.

"Could you fetch the silver polish please?"

"Of course, Mr Carson."

She steps away and he feels the warmth go with her.

* * *

The first few notes drift softly into his pantry through the open door - a love song so late in the evening. There's a familiar tightness in his chest as he listens to the rise and fall of the melody, his thoughts drifting slowly away to another time, another place.

"Mr Carson?"

She is standing in the doorway, her features softened by the low light. He starts at the interruption of her voice and at the quickening of his own heartbeat.

"I was miles away," he says, gesturing for her to enter and sit down. He has already prepared the tea - strong with a dash of milk, just how she likes it -, and set it out with her favourite cup.

"I can see that," she says with a smile. "Was she pretty?"

The heat that creeps up his neck colours his cheeks a delicious, rosy pink, but he furrows his brow.

"I can't possibly imagine what you could be referring to," he says with a gaze of stone.

"Come now, Mr Carson," she says, but his expression does not yield. She sighs and picks up her cup. "I know you'll pretend otherwise, but surely there was somebody at one point?"

He stares at her for a long moment as the soulful notes of the piano float between them still. He finds his hand at his collar, adjusting and loosening to create some breathing space.

"Why do you ask?"

She shrugs with an air of casual composure.

"I told you about Joe Burns. I thought you might tell me a bit more about you."

"I see," he says, swallowing hard. "And if I had anything to tell, then I would. Downton is my life, Mrs Hughes. I don't have time for other… ventures."

"Don't be so coy," she says with a grin and a soft sparkle in her eye. "But I understand."

He bows his head - acknowledgement that she has chosen to spare him -, and he admires her for it. For a moment, the silence echoes around the pantry, permeated only by the irrelevant notes of a love song.

"I really should put a stop to this," he says, suddenly irritated by the sentiment behind it. He is halfway out of his chair when he feels her hand on his shoulder, his awareness of it hitting him like a hurricane.

"It's only William," she says, the pressure of her fingers encouraging him back into his chair. "Give him a few more minutes. I like to hear him play."

Her hand stays there, and he is overcome by the urge to brush it away. Instead, he stays still, holding his breath as if the very act of breathing would break the delicate thing that is descending slowly upon him.

Deft fingers flutter slowly up his neck, feeling their way to his jawbone with an attentiveness that makes his breath catch in the back of his throat. She explores the soft flesh of his cheek and the hard line of his cheekbone with a touch so soft that he could almost believe he is dreaming. His eyes flicker shut against this pleasure that he doesn't have the right to feel.

The look in _her_ eyes - it's the most tender thing he has have ever seen.

It feels like forever before she moves - then it is all at once, pulling herself away with a sharp sniff of apology.

"Mrs Hughes… I…"

"Don't say anything. I'll go now if that's what you want."

He looks at her for a long moment, the subtle sadness of rejection already in her eyes.

He nods.

* * *

The candelabra is sitting on his desk, reflecting away the weak rays of the early morning sunlight. One of the arms is clutching a note written in achingly familiar handwriting:

_You don't lose by trying._

_I'm sorry. _

He picks up the heavy silver, examining every inch with a sense of admiration. The mark that had tarnished it yesterday has all but vanished, leaving nothing but a high shine that he would be proud of. He wonders for a moment how she has managed it - he had given up all hope.

* * *

When he finds her again, she is gazing out of the window at the fresh, spring lawn. He watches her there for a moment, nothing more than an outline in the watery sun. He clears his throat, and she looks back over her shoulder, permitting herself a sad smile as he approaches.

"Thank you," he says, gesturing to the note he is still holding in his hand. "I'll never know how you did it."

"Time and patience," she replies. "You just didn't try for long enough."

"I tried for at least fifteen minutes!"

She laughs at his indignation, and he is pleased to see the storm back in her eyes.

"Oh, Mr Carson," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "Things don't just happen straight away because you want them to. You have to rub away at the surface until you get through all the hard, stubborn stuff. It takes time, but it's good life advice."

"And that's what you did?" he asks, realising they are no longer talking about polishing silver. She looks away from him with a heavy sigh and a heavy heart.

"No," she says. "I didn't."

"You're a brave woman," he says at last, stung by her sadness, aching for being the cause of it.

"I'm not sure brave is the word. Foolish, maybe," she says, and just like that, the silence is back, loaded with all the words he wants to say to her - his own beautiful, foolish truth.

"I don't think so," he says quietly.

She is watching him - close enough to touch - and his hand hovers for a moment in mid-air between them, drawn by the very warmth of her standing there. He sees the soft surprise in her eyes, hears the quiet intake of breath as the boundaries are almost broken.

Then he chokes. He lets his hand fall - a curled fist of frustration - as she turns away.

He is left staring at the back of her head, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his palm, suffocating.


	2. Chapter 2

He lies in bed, the cotton sheets pulled up to his chin, eyes wide open.

The desire to sleep is strong - the night air is so warm, just outside the window -, but he won't let himself spend a moment longer than necessary in a world that he has no control over. She has been in his dreams every night; fragmented, heavenly moments that stay with him until he wakes, and return to him with every glance or word they exchange. He can't allow himself such immoral pleasures.

He stares at the ceiling and the shadows that play there, just dancing on the surface. He doesn't think of last night's dream - _the way her dress fell from her body like a cambric waterfall_ -, and he doesn't dwell on the fabricated memory of her lips pressed against his. He stares and stares, not thinking of anything at all, until the pull of her voice, the warmth of her skin are too much to bear, and he slips seamlessly into forbidden dreams.

* * *

"You look tired this morning, Carson."

"Not at all, m'lady. I have the mildest of headaches, that is all."

Lady Mary is the only one down for breakfast this morning, and it is a welcome relief to distract himself in her life, even if only for half an hour.

"You should take something and go back to bed. Nobody will mind."

He raises his eyebrows at the thought of leaving the house to run itself.

"I assure you, I'm fine."

"I wonder if there's something going round. A bug or a cold? Mrs Hughes has been a bit off-colour recently," she says.

"In what way?" he asks too quickly.

"She seems a bit… distracted. But you know Mrs Hughes. She insists everything's fine." She pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. "You wouldn't know anything about it?"

"Why would I know anything m'lady?"

"Oh, don't try that with me, Carson. I know how close you two are. Anyone can see she means a great deal to you."

"Our relationship is strictly professional."

"I wasn't suggesting anything else," she says with an amused smile. "I thought she might have mentioned that something was troubling her. Or have you fallen out?"

It takes all his effort to maintain a neutral expression.

"Nothing of the sort," he says, surprised at the ease with which the lie rolls off his tongue.

"I'm glad, then. You both seem awfully troubled, but it seems that you have each other to confide in."

He clears his throat, bowing his head in stiff agreement. She puts her knife a fork to one side, contemplating him with an air of intrigue and concern.

"If you won't tell me what's the matter, promise me you'll talk to Mrs Hughes? I wonder if it might do her some good too."

"Oh, really m'lady…I don't think…"

"Carson," she interrupts, raising the palm of her hand. "You don't have to feel awkward about it. I'm not suggesting anything by it. I'm asking you, for my own peace of mind."

"If there is an appropriate moment, I will mention it."

"Thank you," she says, rising to her feet, half of her food still untouched on her plate. He realises the smile of amusement has never really left her face. "If you'll excuse me, I have a headache of my own to deal with. Perhaps it's this mysterious bug?"

* * *

He paces back and forth outside the door to her sitting room. She will be expecting him, and usually, he would have entered without the thought to knock. Today, however, he is nervous.

He listens outside the door for a moment but hears nothing. He imagines her on the other side, the wine already poured, waiting for him to slip in unannounced. The thought fills him with something unexplainable - a sick, thrilling tingle, full of intimacy and anticipation.

He is disgusted.

"Mr Carson. Do stop lurking outside my door."

He jumps, and she is behind him, too close for him to back away. He feels the rush of blood to his face, his cheeks filling with a furious fire.

"I wasn't lurking. I was about to knock."

"You don't usually knock," she says with a frown. "I'd only gone to get a clean glass. I'm afraid I've been a little careless in my washing up, recently."

He tries to keep a rigid posture, an air of dignity, but he she is too close.

"We've both been a little careless, Mrs Hughes."

She lets out a deep sigh of exasperation as she fumbles for her keys.

"I wish you wouldn't worry so. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen."

She puts her hand on his arm - an absent-minded gesture - to encourage him out of the way of the door.

"Nothing happened? You put your… You made me…" he hesitates, flustered, cringing away from her touch. "Well, it did happen, didn't it? And now we can't forget about it."

"Say it, Mr Carson," she says, fierce now. "What exactly happened? I touched you? I put my hands on you, and you liked it?"

He flinches at the stinging honesty of her words.

"You want more, you tried for more, but you couldn't. _That_ is what all this is about." She draws a deep breath. "It was wrong, Mr Carson - _we_ were wrong. But none of it was careless."

"The fact of the matter is Lady Mary has noticed something is going on. She asked me to speak to you, to share our problems, but I don't think that will be the best course of action."

"No," she says, glaring at him in quiet anger. "All it will take is a little love song, and we won't be able to help ourselves."

She swings the door open, leaving him standing in the hallway with that delicious thought in his is something wild in her eyes - an anger he has never known from his kind-hearted housekeeper.

"Are you coming in, or not?"

There is a desperate temptation to cross that threshold, but he remembers the smile on Lady Mary's face.

"That's what I came to tell you tonight, Mrs Hughes. We've let ourselves become too close, too… intimate." He falters a little with the weight of the last word. "I won't come in, or I fear it will make things worse for us."

"You don't trust yourself?"

He thinks about it for a moment - realises that it's what it all boils down to in the end. He can't look at her - can't stand the accusation and hurt in those thunderstorm eyes.

"I won't be coming in. And you won't be coming into my pantry either. Not anymore."

She nods, her mouth pressed into a hard, flat line.

"Goodnight, Mr Carson."

With that, the door closes between them, and he is left alone in the hallway, a heavy weariness draped around his shoulders like a cloak.


	3. Chapter 3

He knows where to find her on days like today, when summer has finally wound its fingers around the house. She loves the pretty flowers, the earthly smells and the endless days with no night in between, but he isn't so keen. He likes to wrap himself up in the darkness of winter and feel the chill breeze on his skin, but she's always so cold.

The sun is just disappearing behind the trees as he walks to where he knows she will be. He doesn't know why he has chosen tonight, but there is something about her that has just not been right over the past few weeks. Their fight, their problems, whatever it is between them - it just doesn't seem enough to make her skin so pale and her eyes so sad. There is something more to the strain in her voice, something more than his pride is worth. Even Mrs Patmore has been gentle with her - he wonders if in his absence, she has become her new confidante.

He turns the corner, the gravel of the driveway crunching beneath his feet, echoing heavily in the summer air. The old willow tree comes into view, and he strains his eyes to catch a glimpse of her on the bench beneath the languid, whispering branches.

She isn't there.

He carries on, his heart stinging at the sight of the empty bench and the lonely willow tree that usually enjoys her company on such evenings. It sways lazily in the breeze as he passes, and he can't help but wonder if it knows something that he doesn't.

* * *

The house is almost dead when he returns from his walk, a good hour later than he had anticipated. He thinks about retiring to his pantry to read for a while, but his feet guide him without permission to the corridor outside her sitting room. It's late, but he knows there is a chance she may still be up.

He hesitates, remembering his promise that he would not be entering her sitting room again. But, then he thinks of Mrs Patmore and the willow tree, and everyone else that is closer to Mrs Hughes than he is nowadays, and he raises his hand.

Before his knuckles can connect with the solid wood, he hears a noise from inside the room - a disturbing mixture of a crash and a thud, followed by whispered curses. Then, silence.

"Mrs Hughes?

He knocks, but there is no answer, so he presses his ear to the door, ashamed at the level of his secret intrusion. When there is no answer, he puts his hand on the knob, closing his eyes before swinging it wide.

* * *

Glistening shards of glass - the remnants of what was once a magnificent fruit bowl - are scattered on the floor between them. She is standing in the middle of it, hands pressed to her face, shoulders shaking with gentle sobs.

"May I help?" he asks, gesturing to the beautiful, vicious mess on the floor. He remembers that she has never really been fond of the fruit bowl - her only inheritance from a stony-faced, stony-hearted aunt.

"Leave me alone, Mr Carson," she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and he is surprised by how red and puffy they already are. "I appreciate the gesture, but please… just leave me."

As he turns away, he tries not to notice that her hands are trembling and tears are still rolling down her cheeks, splashing on to the carpet. She looks delicate, almost too fragile as she bends to gather the larger pieces together.

"If you're sure," he says, his hand hovering over the door handle. She doesn't reply.

Instead, he hears a sharp sob, somewhere between a scream and a gasp, and he turns just in time to the see the sensitive flesh of her palm catch the tip of one of the larger lumps of glass. She recoils, clasping her injured hand to her chest as crimson starts to flow between her fingers, dripping carelessly on to the floor.

He stands for a moment, watching the clumsy aftermath and the droplets of blood pooling together on the shimmering glass. He notices she has stopped crying.

"Are you alright?" he asks, taking a tentative step towards her.

She doesn't reply, just stares at the chaos.

"Let me see."

He takes her wrist in his hand, pulling it away from her chest, exposing the wound. She flinches at the contact, but he can see that the cut is not deep.

"I hate blood," she says as he checks the wound for remnants of glass. "I know it's silly, but I hate it."

"It's not silly," he says. "It's perfectly natural. Now, that's going to be sore for a few days, but it looks a lot worse than it is."

He takes a cloth and wipes the trail of blood from the lily-white skin of her wrist and palm, taking care to be gentle around the wound. He feels her hold her breath whenever he gets too close, but she doesn't complain at all.

"I didn't know you were such a good doctor," she says. He presses the cloth to her hand with a delicate firmness - just enough to stop the last of the bleeding.

"As if you ever doubted it," he teases, and he feels her fingers close around his hand. They stand there for a moment, surround by the shattered remnants of the fruit bowl, just holding on.

"Thank you," she says, looking up at him with earnest eyes. "And I'm sorry… for everything."

He hears the break in her voice, but fights the instinct to pull her into his arms.

"No," he says. "I'm sorry. It's my fault, not yours."

"Is it really so wrong?" she asks, gesturing at their intertwined fingers. "If this is how we feel?"

He senses a desperation in her that he hasn't known before.

"Not to me, but to the rest of society, to Lord and Lady Grantham. If we were to pursue these feelings, Mrs Hughes, we couldn't know what would happen in the future. Life would become a series of uncertainties, and I know I couldn't lose you in that way."

"Life is a series of uncertainties," she says, her sea-storm eyes filling once more with tears. "No one can predict what will happen in the future."

Her words seem to have another meaning, but he is lost to find it. He can feel her fingernails against the tough flesh of his knuckles as her grip tightens on him.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says, but she shakes her head.

"Nothing is wrong," she says, as she falls silently apart. "Nothing at all."


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn't see the gap between them close - he doesn't even remember how it happened. All he knows is that one moment there is space, the next there is her.

He wonders if it is instinct or inevitability.

He can feel every breath of hers with electric senses as he holds her steady, but he barely dares to take a breath of his own. He folds himself around her, stifling her sobs with his body, letting her head fall against his chest with a mixture of resignation and relief.

He whispers soothing nonsense into her hair until he is full of nothing but the scent of soap and lavender.

"Oh, Mrs Hughes," he says, his hands soothing their way down the length of her back and shoulder blades. "It can't be as bad as all this."

"I don't want to talk about it," she whispers, tears still falling onto the coarse material of his jacket. "It won't change anything."

"Maybe I can help?"

"No, Mr Carson," she says, her voice thick with emotion and secrets. "You can't help."

He pulls her closer, his hand now stroking her head.

"I should have listened to Lady Mary," he says, half to himself. "She told me something was wrong, but I've been so short-sighted. I was embarrassed, because I assumed it was about… us."

There is a slight inflection on this final word - a question, an uncertainty, and he feels her stiffen at the mention of it.

"She was probably right, at first," she says, after a pause. "But not this whole time."

She sniffs, wiping her fingertips beneath her eyes, soaking them in salty tears.

"You haven't told her, have you? Whatever this secret is?"

"No," she admits. "You know my opinion of her, Mr Carson."

"Have you told anyone?" he asks, but there is an indecisive pause. "Mrs Hughes?"

She pulls back so that she can look directly into his eyes. He keeps his arms around her, the warmth of her body impossible to leave now that he has felt it.

"I've told Mrs Patmore. And Dr Clarkson."

He feels his world shift onto an unsteady axis.

"Dr Clarkson? Why does he need to…?"

She raises an eyebrow - a tacit signal that spills her secret with more intensity than any combination of words.

"Oh, Mrs Hughes, please tell me… no."

The gravity of it is weighing on his chest, tightening until he's sure he will choke, until he's no longer sure which way is up.

_Life is a series of uncertainties._

He stares at her, knowledge of this illness trying to alter his perspective, and he can see the panic in her eyes as he scans her body. He is seeing her - he is seeing everything - in a new light.

"This is why I didn't want to tell anyone," she whispers, pulling away, self-conscious. He notices the way she protects herself with her arms, crossing them over her chest. "The pity…"

He reaches for her again, encouraging her into his arms, but she resists, resting her hands on the front of his jacket.

"I'm here. It's alright," he says, trying to coax her to him, but she curls her fists against his chest, white-knuckled and frustrated.

"It's not," she says. "None of this is alright. Certainly not by your standards."

"What do you mean?"

"You've changed your tune, and it's out of pity. I don't want your pity, Mr Carson. I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

She is tense against him, pale and agitated.

"I promise, Mrs Hughes, this isn't out of pity."

He isn't sure what it _is _out of. Perhaps it really is instinct, and it will leave him in the morning with the lingering taste of regret - but, right now, he feels nothing. The part of his brain that has told him how wrong his feelings have been is silenced by the solid weight of having her against him.

Perhaps it is inevitability.

"If this isn't too _intimate_, or whatever you call it, then I don't know what it is. But by your standards, _this isn't alright._"

He has never seen such a storm come to life in the matter of an instant - the furious combination of her frustration and need ablaze in her eyes and tangible on her skin.

"It isn't alright," he agrees, taking her hands from his chest, placing them down by her sides. "But it will be."

Free from her grasp, he takes her chin in the tips of his fingers, tilting her face towards his. The remnants of her tears saturate his fingers, the ghosts of her pain soaking into his skin.

"Believe me," he says.

And he kisses her.

There is none of the softness he has imagined all these years, none of the innocence and naivety he pictured in his mind. It is rough and needy, desire pouring like blood between them, soaking them slowly until it demands more and more.

What strikes him most is the honesty of it. The heat in him, his need for her - it all stems from a painful reality with no room for tentative, school-child fantasies.

"Mr Carson," she says, between gasps of air, but he silences her with his tongue against hers. He understands she is past the need for words, and this is how he will make it better. This is how he will make it up to her.

Her breath is hot in his mouth as he tastes the heady mixture of salt and skin. It is never chaste, or sweet, or any of those things - it never will be in this darkening room, surrounded by the smashed remains of the fruit bowl -, but he realises they are too old and wise for that.

Hands and skin, sweat and tears - that is all it has come down to as he explores her body with urgent touches, full with the need to have all of her now that it has come this far. He doesn't touch her hair, he doesn't remove a single article of clothing, but he grounds himself with the firmness of her body and the life in her muscles as she reacts to his touch.

"You were wrong," he says, dipping his head to explore the sensitive skin of her neck.

"What about?"

"Life," he whispers. "It's full of surprises, not uncertainties."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"One is about not knowing," he says, putting a firm hand on her waist. She arches into him, pushing against him and exposing more of her neck to the tender exploration of his mouth. "The other is about finding out."


End file.
